


A Moment to Feel

by sanerontheinside



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Snippets, Written for the QuiObi Writing Discord
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:35:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29895009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanerontheinside/pseuds/sanerontheinside
Summary: A set of snippets for the hurt/comfort server challenge 😊
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26
Collections: QuiObi Writing Discord Prompt Fills





	1. Index

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Index of works for easy navigation, prompt and relevant tags

The following is an index of chapters posted in this work, listed with prompt and relevant tags: 

  1. Chapter 2:  
Prompt: _You’re going to bed. Now.  
_relevant tags: injury, medical stuff, oh no he’s hot  
  

  2. Chapter 3:  
Prompt: _Where did those bruises come from?  
_relevant tags: mutual pining  
  

  3. Chapter 4:   
Prompt: _Where are you? Tell me where you are._  
relevant tags: long distance comfort   

  4. Chapter 5:   
Prompt: _I’m at the Healers’._  
relevant tags: sick Padawans and worried Masters, jedi lyfe, background sickfic 




	2. “You’re going to bed. Now.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Obi-Wan is injured, Qui-Gon is worried, and _oh no he’s hot._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> relevant tags: injury, medical stuff, oh no he’s hot

It wasn’t the first time Qui-Gon had treated his Padawan’s injuries, and certainly not the first time he’d treated something serious enough to require the heavy-duty painkillers. 

Of course, his Padawan was now several years a Knight. It didn’t really improve his reaction to the painkillers, though. 

Obi-Wan had been tense and upset, less by the shrapnel Qui-Gon had had to remove and more by the deterioration of the ceasefire they’d been hoping to cement into a long-term peace. Actually, Obi-Wan barely seemed to notice the injury, not even after Qui-Gon had sat him down in the medical bay and sliced through the leg of his pants with a knife. He barely twitched when Qui-Gon injected him with the hypo, though he did shoot Qui-Gon a fierce glare. 

Obi-Wan’s mood was not much improved by the extraction of the shrapnel. “Ow,” he said, deadpan. 

“Sit still,” Qui-Gon told him, rather unnecessarily. Obi-Wan was a grudging, but otherwise model patient. 

The twisted metal hadn’t cut across major blood vessels, thank the Force. He swabbed the wound, irrigated it, and tried not to fret at the pained hiss that Obi-Wan couldn’t fully stifle. 

“You didn’t have to do that, you know.” 

Qui-Gon had no idea what possessed him to speak. Even before opening his mouth, he knew it was a terrible topic to broach. And a terrible time for it, as well. 

“Didn’t have to what?” Obi-Wan asked, sounding truly puzzled. 

“Shield me from the blast.” Qui-Gon kept his eyes down, carefully stitching the wound closed with dissolving sutures. 

“Ah.” Obi-Wan sat quietly for a minute. 

Qui-Gon bit back the words cramming into his head and clamouring to be let loose. 

Instead, he made himself focus on the steps for wound care. He would have to pack the injury with bacta, and seal it with a watertight bandage. Administer a hypo with broad-spectrum antimicrobials, because gods only knew where that piece of debris had been blasted from. 

“And you don’t have to stitch me up,” Obi-Wan said eventually. 

Qui-Gon was carefully drawing the suture through a small, neat knot, barely registering words. Obi-Wan’s tone was casual, anything but pointed, even if the phrasing might’ve been. Although his enunciation was just this side of too careful, and he was listing a little to the left. Qui-Gon automatically lifted an arm to brace him. 

Obi-Wan sighed—a sound like relief, a heavy weight left behind. “S’nice,” he said dreamily, “having help, and…” 

Having clipped the suture, Qui-Gon tucked the needle back into the packaging and peeled open the bacta patch. “And?” 

He wanted Obi-Wan to keep talking. There wasn’t a much better way to monitor his condition than that. 

“Company. Com-pe-tent,” Obi-Wan added, popping the ‘t’, “company.”

Qui-Gon glanced up at him, a little surprised. 

Obi-Wan’s pupils were blown wide. And Qui-Gon became abruptly aware of where his hand was: pressing a bacta patch firmly into his former Padawan’s thigh. 

His gorgeous,  _ extremely  _ competent former Padawan. 

Now was not the time for such discoveries. 

Qui-Gon sighed. “You’re going to bed. Now.”

Obi-Wan grinned at him, wide and lopsided. “ _ Mah- _ ster.” 

Qui-Gon tried not to shiver. He forced his eyes back down to the job at hand, and quickly went through the last few steps—the hypo, the watertight seal. A touch of Force healing. 

Obi-Wan giggled, muscle twitching under Qui-Gon’s hand. “Tickles!” 

“Sorry,” Qui-Gon said, a bit gruffly. “Can you stand?”

But Obi-Wan just raised his arms like the youngling he no longer was—and had never really been, as Qui-Gon’s apprentice. 

Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow in return, and got an unreasonably adorable pout for his trouble. 

“No balance,” Obi-Wan insisted. “Legs very slow, very far.” 

“Unbelievable,” Qui-Gon told him. But it wasn’t an unusual side effect, at least in Obi-Wan’s experience with this med. “All those years of asking them to stock something else, and it had to be the one time I forgot. All right.”

Qui-Gon scooped him up, with only a touch of the Force to help him. Obi-Wan’s arms slipped around his neck, a gesture that surprised and warmed Qui-Gon. 

At least until he set Obi-Wan down on his bunk and discovered the Knight had no intention of releasing him. 

“Obi-Wan.”

“Nope.” 

“ _ Padawan. _ ” 

Obi-Wan’s arms tightened around him in an awkward half-embrace. Qui-Gon sighed, leaning into it, curling one arm around Obi-Wan’s back. The fear hadn’t quite left him yet, that he’d at last reunited with his Padawan only to lose him again to a shoddy pipe bomb. Qui-Gon carefully pulled him closer still. 

“Stay.” 

The word was whispered against his ear, warm and intimate, and Qui-Gon sighed, giving in. 

“Scoot over,” he murmured. 


	3. “Where did those bruises come from?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s their first partnered mission since Obi-Wan was Knighted, so of course everything goes wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> relevant tags: mutual pining, slight estrangement, awkwardness, mission fic

“Where did those bruises come from?”

“Hm?” Obi-Wan glanced down at himself, and frowned. “Haven’t the faintest,” he slurred very honestly. 

He had forgotten, in fact, about the wrecked landspeeder and the tree, but he supposed that must’ve been the culprit. In his defence, he hadn’t been the one driving, and he’d abandoned the speeder before it met the tree, taking the terrified driver along with him. 

The Dug had sworn a streak so blue it was veritably ultraviolet, though Obi-Wan had probably saved their life. “What a thankless job we do,” Obi-Wan said, and laughed faintly to himself. 

The look on Qui-Gon’s face brought him up short. 

“What is it?” 

He could tell that Qui-Gon was about to say something, and he could see the exact moment his Master decided against it. 

“Oh dear,” Obi-Wan said, darkly amused and very, very tired. 

It was hard not to be disappointed. Some moments, it seemed like Qui-Gon had been holding back nearly every thought that came to him. Obi-Wan had resigned himself to carrying on this one-sided conversation for the rest of the mission, just to avoid the weight of the silence stretching out between them, but it was difficult to carry around so much weight on his own. 

“Guess I’ve really cocked it up if you won’t even speak to me, hm?” Obi-Wan muttered, a wry, self-deprecating little grin curling in the corner of his mouth. 

It did the trick, apparently. 

“Obi-Wan, no.” Qui-Gon had a rather pinched expression on his face. “I only—let me help you with the bruises.”

“You needn’t trouble yourself, Master, I can heal them myself.”

“It’s not trouble!” 

That was nearly an outburst, for his controlled Master. The trace of ire was—somewhat reassuring, actually. 

But then Qui-Gon deflated again. 

“I cannot be out there with you,” he said. “I cannot fight beside you, and I can scarcely outrun a monkey-lizard. Please, let me do what I can. Let me do this for you.”

“Oh.” Obi-Wan blinked. “That’s—thank you. No—wait. What was it you were going to say before?” 

Qui-Gon rubbed a hand across his mouth, a nervous gesture so uncharacteristic of him that Obi-Wan was beginning to worry. 

“I only wanted you to find peace in your purpose,” Qui-Gon said at last. 

Obi-Wan mulled that over, thoughts slow as taffy. Qui-Gon took his stillness as permission to work on the bruises, and truth be told Obi-Wan lacked the energy to make any objections. And his Master’s hands were warm and gentle… the touch lulled him half to sleep as Qui-Gon worked. 

“I am at peace,” Obi-Wan murmured. 

“Resignation and peace are not the same thing.” 

“It serves,” he said faintly. 

But Qui-Gon shook his head, looking sad in that gentle way of his. “You deserve more than this.” 


	4. “Where are you? Tell me where you are.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qui-Gon is tired and far away from his bondmate. Some nights are more difficult than others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> relevant tags: long distance comfort

The lights of Tyrena’s spaceport are too bright, and the lamps are about thirty years old, which makes them the model Qui-Gon can identify in his sleep by the exact pitch of their inescapable buzz. It’s worse, though, that the unintended side effect of the cavernous terminal makes everything echo, from the footsteps to the quiet voices of tired travelers, to the click of turnstiles. 

All of it underscored by that high frequency buzz. 

Qui-Gon eyes the departure times with what is probably a bleak expression. There’s an ever-growing delay on his flight, and he’s wondering when it will finally be canceled. 

He hasn’t slept in some time. He can’t remember when he last ate, but the flight alone was fourteen hours. He’s very aware of the possibility that, if he sits down, he might not get up again for a long while. 

Instead, he finds himself a relatively secluded corner—where two of the lights have gone out, thank the Force. Qui-Gon isn’t thinking much about what he’s doing. He takes out his comm, fingers moving automatically. 

One ring, two… 

“Hello there.”

Even through the tinny comm speaker, Obi-Wan’s voice rolls over him like warmth, like summer sunlight and green meadows. He closes his eyes and breathes it in. 

“Qui-Gon?”

“I just wanted to hear your voice,” Qui-Gon says honestly. 

“Long flight?”

“Mm.” 

He should say something. He knows the silence will worry Obi-Wan, but his mind is full of static. 

“Where are you? Tell me where you are.”

Qui-Gon stares at the comm. “Obi-Wan...” 

“ _ Tell _ me.” 

Qui-Gon sighs and lets his head fall forward, exhausted. “Corellia,” he says, “Tyrena’s historic district.” 

“How long?” 

“Forty-nine hour delay on top of sixteen hours’ layover,” Qui-Gon says. “For now.” 

There’s no reason to think that Obi-Wan is asking because he intends to join Qui-Gon here. But Qui-Gon isn’t thinking about it very much, truth be told. His mind is still on the icy plains of Lisgath. And part of him wants to dream a little: Obi-Wan appearing in a noisy Corellian spaceport, gliding towards him through the meagre evening crowd. 

Qui-Gon is used to the grim realities of service. He is used to the fact that the stories beings tell of Jedi liken them to something mythical, but in the end it only leaves people disappointed by the pale truth. Qui-Gon is not all-powerful, and it is difficult to be thankful for what little he can do in the depths of grief and suffering. 

“You should book that hotel,” Obi-Wan says suddenly. 

Qui-Gon smiles. He can’t help it. He knows exactly which hotel Obi-Wan means. Remembers how Obi-Wan looked, pressed back against the pale blue shower tile. Their first partnered mission since Obi-Wan’s Knighthood and Qui-Gon had broken down spectacularly, fallen upon his former Padawan like a starving man. 

“But you’re not here,” Qui-Gon says, and hopes it doesn’t sound plaintive. 

“Everyone needs a little comfort and familiarity every now and then, Master Jinn,” Obi-Wan tells him. 

It’s a gentle tease—Qui-Gon can remember saying the same to his Padawan a time or two. He sighs. “All right. I will take your advice, Knight Kenobi.” 

“A first, I’m sure,” says Obi-Wan, and Qui-Gon can hear the impish grin in it. “Try to get the room, Qui. You need a great big bed to sink into without your ankles hanging off the end.” 

It’s ridiculously endearing, to have Obi-Wan worrying about his ankles, and Qui-Gon tells him so. 

“Someone’s got to, you great big Wookiee. Go on, now. Sleep, first. Order room service. Think of me pampering you.” 

Qui-Gon closes his eyes again. His chest aches: it’s almost too much to have someone who would care for him like this, even from lightyears away. “It’s a very long walk,” he murmurs. 

“You can keep talking to me,” Obi-Wan tells him gently. “Here, let me tell you about the latest dispute on Neimoidia…” 

Qui-Gon doesn’t recall much of his trek to the hotel, or even ordering the room. He doesn’t remember very much of what Obi-Wan told him, either, though it sounded terribly typical of Neimoidians. 

But he remembers the relief of walking into a familiar place, even if it is a hotel room. And he remembers sinking into the bed, almost fully dressed and not bothering to get under the covers, with Obi-Wan still talking in his ear. 


	5. “I’m at the Healers’.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trouble with Padawans...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> relevant tags: sick Padawans and worried Masters, jedi lyfe, background sickfic

It’s been an hour since Qui-Gon’s ship landed, and Obi-Wan is getting worried. They have a long-standing tradition now: the first to arrive in-Temple buys dinner (takeout from Dex’s Diner) and sets the table. Obi-Wan has been eyeing the sealed, insulated boxes for some time now, wondering if there has been a mistake in the schedule, or if something truly dire has happened, when his comm buzzes. 

“I’m at the Healers’,” Qui-Gon says, and Obi-Wan’s heart jumps. But then, perhaps sensing Obi-Wan’s unease, Qui-Gon adds: “Anakin picked up a wicked strain of Tanavian flu.”

“Ah,” says Obi-Wan. 

All these years after Naboo, it’s still a relief to know that Qui-Gon hasn’t been injured while Obi-Wan wasn’t there to guard his back. He supposes it’s a fear that he might never truly conquer. 

“Well, that’s no reason to cancel our dinner date,” Obi-Wan says reasonably, packing up takeout containers one-handed, “just make it a picnic at the Healers’.” 

There’s a tired chuckle on the other end of the line. “The Healers won’t let you in.” 

“They won’t even know I’m there,” Obi-Wan argues. “It’s hardly the first time I’ve snuck in.” 

“One day they’ll figure out how you’re doing it, and you’ll lose your advantage,” Qui-Gon tells him, but it’s notably not a protest. 

“I’ll be there soon.” 

Obi-Wan stops only to make tea. 

It really isn’t the first time he snuck in. Padawans on the night shift are notoriously tired, and in fairness Obi-Wan always has been rather good at diversions. A noise in the hall, a collapsing stack of flimsi—innocent things, mostly, to give him a minute to sneak by. Sometimes he’s a little more brazen about it, and just walks right through like he belongs there. No one is inclined to ask questions, especially when Obi-Wan answers them with a free cookie—one of Dex’s courtesy takeout treats that is, in all honesty, too sweet for Human consumption. 

This time, the poor Padawan looks entirely asleep on her feet, so Obi-Wan takes pity on her and pours some of the tea into her empty cup. He’s not sure she even registers his presence beyond that. 

Obi-Wan finds his Master looking haggard and too thin, but Qui-Gon’s face lights up at the sight of him. 

“And you tell me I look like I haven’t eaten or slept,” Obi-Wan utters, slightly appalled. “What happened?” 

“New strain of Tanavian flu,” Qui-Gon says, and sinks into his chair, glancing over at Anakin. “I caught it first. It’s worse for Anakin, though.”

“But you’ve been worrying over him, and haven’t given your body a chance to recover yet.” 

Qui-Gon concedes easily. “At least it was a relatively simple mission.” 

Obi-Wan shakes his head fondly at the man, and gestures over at the table and chair in the opposite corner of the small room. The furniture obligingly marshals itself over to rest between them. 

“Inappropriate,” Qui-Gon chides out of habit. At Obi-Wan’s raised eyebrow, he nods towards his Padawan. “You’re corrupting the youth.” 

“The youth’s asleep,” Obi-Wan argues, “and dragging the table around would certainly wake him.” 

“Somehow I doubt that, but I suppose what’s done is done. What does Dex have to offer for a tired pair of Jedi?” 

“Spicy noodles,” Obi-Wan takes out the boxes, “fried vegetables and strips of bantha-meat in allium sauce. Muja mousse cake.” 

Qui-Gon is eyeing the thermos with some suspicion. “Please tell me Dex didn’t send his approximation of tea with all that.” 

“No, that’s mine.”

It’s ridiculously endearing to see Qui-Gon’s shoulders relax all at once. “All right then,” the Jedi Master says. “Thank you.” 

“Whatever for?” 

Qui-Gon smiles. “I’ve missed you. I was looking forward to dinner, and then very disappointed that I’d have to call and beg off.” 

Obi-Wan can feel the blush heating his cheeks, crawling up to the tips of his ears. “Oh. Well. I’m very happy to meet you where you are, Qui-Gon.” He looks up, drinks in the sight of a relieved Qui-Gon Jinn, slouched back in the too-small medi-wing chair. “Always.” 

Qui-Gon’s smile lights up his face, and warms Obi-Wan right through. 


End file.
